Archives for the Date December 14th, 2018

Omg PLZ tell me we’re getting some HRH soon

anonymous asked: More HRH please!! ♡

anonymous asked: 

More HRH pleaseeee 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

anonymous asked: 

Any hope for a new chapter of HRH very soon?

Previously:

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched


Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation

Though she was present for the first time in recent memory, it was like Claire was absent from her own life.

In the natural lulls of conversations, she found herself touching her mouth as though she were awed by its mere existence.

(Those fingers that had learned the precise messiness of the curls at Fraser’s nape. That mouth that had been so thoroughly kissed.)

In the quiet moments between meetings and briefings, she recalled in vivid, blushing detail the dreams that had woken her.

(The soundest sleep she had in months –– a floating into dreams, landing in technicolor moments never lived and perhaps never to be.  Jarring herself awake, panting and drenched with sweat in her bed, right hand cupping right breast and left scrabbling for a disappointingly absent head of curls between her thighs.  Arching against her sheets, a slick aching that quickly receded into an unfulfilled promise as she reached for the lamp on her bedside table.)

Her attention became a meandering thing.  

Someone would clear a throat, tap the table, or inquire “ma’am?” as her eyes focused on something and nothing at once. (The needlepoint cushion that had been perched on her sitting room chair since before her uncle became king. A single syllable in a familiar word written in all capital letters on the corner of an envelope. The tip of a branch squeaking a melody out against a pane of glass.)

No one asked questions of her.

They did not dare, but they thought knew the source of her distraction, the cause of the far-off look in her eyes.

A broken engagement.  A disastrous state dinner.  Frank Randall.  A fixture in her life no more.

She contented herself in their erroneous speculations. She did not squander her time on correcting the course of their wandering minds or quelling the inevitable gossip mongering that danced in quiet corners, oddly-placed cupboards, and markedly private staff quarters.  

Fraser was a secret known only to her, the thrill of his mere existence (his willingness to give himself over to her) fluttering in the chambers of her heart.  It dwelled there, untold, beneath stratum of skin and bone, growing and taking shape.  Her heart was the full moon, white and blemished grey with the shapes of a face, beating lazily in her chest.

“Just a few more, ma’am,” an attendant said apologetically, sliding a final small stack of letters for her signature across the table.

She offered again and again the same apologetic smile, allowing these nameless people their mad speculations.

The Queen gone unhinged.

She focused on time.

The hands on the clock seemed to toddle along with no sense of urgency.  The conversation between the courses of her evening meal droned on and on (about this and that, nothing in particular that required her input, just polites nod of acknowledgment or good humored laughs).  While she had always found the formality of meals with company tedious, it was even more so that evening.  Her mind was elsewhere –– vested in her evening plan.  

And when she was finished eating and had bid her guests a good evening, she retreated to her suite of rooms where she could shut out their chatter and their faraway looks.

An hour until she would see him again.

Giddy on nothing more than thought and memory, she exhaled her relief against the door.  She ran through a not insubstantial sampling of the night’s possibilities.  Only the press of her forehead into the wood, her fingers curling around the ornate door knob kept her from floating off the face of the earth.  After a moment, mind still rapidly cataloguing some of what they may get up to that evening (from ordinary to downright lascivious), she peeled herself free from the door and made her way to her dressing room.

Selecting something to wear was a non-issue.  

Black sweater.  Black riding pants and boots.  A scarf.

Something told her that she could toddle down the slope to the stables in a gunny sack dress and be just perfectly well received by Fraser.

She stripped the day’s boring dress off (grey, tweed, relatively shapeless without a belt) and allowed it pool at her feet. She shed her slip.  Down to her underthings, she studied herself in the floor-length mirror. The plain nude briefs with their high waist, scalloped elastic, and little satin bow that was frozen, skewed sideways someway above her navel were hardly the thing of a lad’s magazine.  The nondescript flesh-colored brassiere lifted her breasts, separated them into satin-contained globes with unnaturally rounded peaks would never have been material for a clandestine photograph sent by a woman to her man on the frontlines.  No soldier would hold that photograph, creased and worn at the edges, in his back pocket  

Despite this, turning sideways with her head tilted, she realized that Fraser made her feel beautiful.  Her eyes did not stray from her reflection as she undid the clasp of her bra and let it down her arms easily.  She was not what one would call self conscious.  As a general matter, she had few complaints about her figure.  She rather liked the soft flare from her waist down to her hips.  She could appreciate the teardrop weight of her naked breasts, the turned up silhouette of her puffy pink nipples, and the way those same nipples tightened into hard ridges when she was aroused.

No.  She was alright.  Perhaps even better than.

And Fraser looked at her like no other man had before. Oh Christ did his eyes make themselves at home on her.

She had been the subject of lust.  (Boys at school, with their fumbling hands and panting, humid mouths. Their unpracticed hips and their adolescent need for harder, faster, more mechanical thrusting.  Frank, with his matter-of-fact appraisals and clinical mutterings about the warmth of her, the firm way he drove into her that was never unpleasant, but lacked spark.)

She had been the subject of inspection.  (Papers critiquing this hairstyle, that dress, or the jewels chosen for her on a given occasion.  An entire country’s citizenry taking the prepackaged parts of their Queen in at public functions, consuming her and going back to their lives when the pageant of her entrance and exit was over.)

She had been the subject of curiosities.  (Teachers whispering behind the girls’ dormitories over shared cigarettes. Their discussions about the gangly legs and frizzy hair of the fourth in line to the throne, their breath and smoke mingling into an acrid cloud that hung on their winter coats and the white, half-moon collars that peeked out of tailored dresses.  Parents of her classmates making inquiries that wound their way back to her –– wanting to know what Her Royal Highness Claire Elizabeth’s holiday plans were, whether the family ever invited outsiders to the palace for weekend breaks, if the King was a gad about town with a lady in each postal code or if he was a homosexual.)

But Fraser had made her feel something different.

Not lusted after, inspected, or unusual.

She was more than a tiara or a dress.  

She was entitled to honor separate from her title and ancestry.

Under his gaze, she felt transcendent, strong.  Infinitely complex, but somehow simple.  Cherished.

“My good luck,” he had muttered as they parted the night before. Tapping touches along her collarbones left traces on her more intimate than the kiss that he had given her (that they had shared).  She had studied the firm, curved bone of his thumb beneath her fingers as she guided his hand lower to rest between her breasts.  Concluding, he whispered, “No. Actually, it’s more than good luck.”

She scrubbed in the shower.  Shaved and trimmed.  In front of the mirror she combed her hair with her fingers, dabbed perfume on her pulse points. She inspected her teeth at close range in the mirror for bits of spinach salad, breathed into her cupped hand and sniffed.  She brushed.  Flossed.  She swished with a minty rinse, shivering as it flowed between the tight spaces of her teeth and over her tongue.  Looked again.  Sighed, contented for the moment.

Walking to the stables, her eyes memorized the ground whipping below her feet and her teeth worried her lower lip.

The anticipation was almost over.

She had been in these stables only a few times.  They were different than the ones back in London.  Smaller, narrower, a little claustrophobic, harshly lit.  

Fraser was at the end of the line, leaning on his elbows against the metal bars that gated the last stall.  He was whispering something low and slow, head tilted to the side.

Pausing, Claire eased the door closed behind her just to listen.

Gaelic.  

She knew that much.  

It was beautiful.  

Lyrical almost, with a rhythm that sounded almost supernatural to her ears.  

Though she could not catch and comprehend even a few of the words that he spoke, she could feel the history in each and the storied cadence of his speech.  The rise.  The fall.  The places where he drew breath and smiled at whatever charge was at home in that last stall.  

It was as though the language was a rite passed down (gifted) to him as an ancestral right.

She caught her breath when he tilted his head to look at her and say, “Ye ken that ye can come to me, Sassenach.”

Her heart skipped a beat and she strode across the stables, the anticipation of the day paling in comparison to the sudden need to be next to him.  She chanced a glance into each of the stalls as she passed.  Fraser had a lean (but exquisite) equine crew in Scotland.  Just enough for riding about the grounds and a little showmanship with a carriage (if necessary). Claire drew up beside him, feeling a flush rise in her chest. The way he looked at her –– like he was drawing her into an embrace, telepathically drawing all of her secrets, accepting her notwithstanding the ugliness of some of them.  

The way he kept his eyes open (sparkling, searching) as he leaned in to kiss her sent her reeling.

It was as though nothing was more elemental than the two of them kissing.  

That after their first (stolen the night before, prolonged and made into a memory), it had become an innate part of them to meet with their lips.

She was falling –– like the moment after catching her toe, when she knew she would fall, but could not stop the forward momentum. The pout of his lips meeting hers was an unexpected catch.  His fingers along the periphery, swiping back an errant curl from her cheek, the soft landing.

Natural.  

This was natural.

By all accounts it was a chaste kiss, but it ignited her, burned her insides.

And when Fraser pulled back, eyes still open and lips turned in the most self-satisfied little smirk she had ever seen, she realized that she was feeling something for the first time.

Wanting.

“Were ye planning to say ‘hello’ to me?” Fraser asked after a careful assessment of her face.  She did not know when his hand had found her side, but his fingers opened along the curve of her waist and drew her closer.  The flush returned to her cheeks as she angled herself up towards him. He was intent in his perusal of her, that bloody smirk turning into a snack.

Other than an unconscious, small squeak she had no time to react when he pecked her on the lips again. She situated the toe of her boots between his, noting in an absent kind of way the small scuff on the left toe of his.  Quietly, she whispered, “Hello.”

Hello,” he echoed, voice even lower.  He absolutely towered over her.  “Ye ken that I’ve been thinkin’ of that kiss for the last twenty-four hours?”

“Oh?”

“Aye, the delicious wee sounds that ye make, the taste of ye.  Though, ye were no’ so minty last night.”

“Nor were you.  Mouthwash.  I’d venture a guess that you also partook this evening.”  She raised a quizzical eyebrow as she touched his jawline.  There was a small amount of stubble there –– perhaps he hadn’t shaved since the day before.  

(She realized that she wanted to know how long it took him to grow in the first, pencil-shaded sketch of a beard.  The type of stubble that he had right now.  A day?  An afternoon?  She wondered what his face would feel like on a Sunday morning if he came home from work on a Friday and did not shave over the weekend.  She wondered what it would feel like to wake next to him –– under him, his knee urging her legs apart –– in some narrow postage stamp of a post-war home on the outskirts of London on that Sunday morning.  To be teased by him, kissed with abandon, left aching by him.  To forget to lament the coming of a Monday because Sunday was a day reserved for one another, not for worrying.)

“I had to wash away the taste of the sausage roll that I had for lunch,” he admitted, the normalcy of the conversation striking her.

“Presumptuous, then, are you, Fraser?”

“Oh, aye, and in good company, it appears.”  His thumb ran along her lower lip before he dropped his hands and turned back to the stall.  He was close enough to her that she could feel the warmth of him, the tang of a day’s hard work.  Draping his arms over the stall and bringing one boot up onto a rung of the gate, he nodded towards the horse.  “This is Thistle.”

Mirroring his pose, Claire really looked at the dappled grey mare there for the first time since arriving in the stables. Brimstone would own her heart forever, but Thistle became a quick, close second.  

“She’s new,” Fraser explained. “Just arrived this morning.”

“She’s a pretty girl,” Claire whispered, stepping onto the lowest rung of the gate into the stall.  She felt a steadying hand on her waist, the expanse of a firm forearm against her lower back, the warmth radiating from his flank.  

“Lass.”

“Pardon?” Claire asked, a little taken aback.

“She’s a lass, not a girl.  Ye’re in Scotland now.”  The smirk was back and she wanted to pull him down to the floor of the bloody stables and learn what his throat tasted like, the dip between his collarbones, the swollen curve of his pecs towards one another.  She was shaken from the fantasy when Fraser reached into his pocket, produced some soft, slightly browned apple slices.  “Saved these for ye to have wi’ her.”

Claire accepted them, taking another step up so she was all the way on the gate.  Holding them forward, she whispered softly.  Fraser chuckled as she drew in a sharp breath when Thistle ambled to the gate and gave a great snort.  The soft, gentle brush of Thistle’s soft, shapeless lips on her hand made her sigh.

“She’s new.  She’s no’ goin’ to be fond of a ride, but a walk, maybe?”

Wiping her spit-slicked hands on her riding pants, Claire nodded, bumping her hip against Fraser’s.  She immediately felt foolish for the gesture. Like a child.  But when he bumped hers back, she could not help the smile that came to her lips.  Confirming with a nod, Claire said, “A walk.”

henricavyll:Caitriona and Sam  + 🍦|  Outlander S4 Premiere 

henricavyll:

Caitriona and Sam  + 🍦|  Outlander S4 Premiere 

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